


Shameless Wonder

by gloriouscacophony (KatrinaKay)



Series: Ineffable Husbands Week 2019 - NSFW [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), Established Relationship, Female Crowley (Good Omens), Genderfluid Character, Lingerie, Masturbation in Bathroom, Multi, Porn with Feelings, Shameless Smut, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-13
Updated: 2019-09-13
Packaged: 2020-10-17 10:28:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20619533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KatrinaKay/pseuds/gloriouscacophony
Summary: Ineffable Husbands Week (NSFW edition) - Day 2: Public Sex/Voyeurism/Exhibitionism + Day 3: Lingerie/Dress-up/BlindfoldedIn which Aziraphale accidentally witnesses Crowley in the bath during their years with the Dowlings, and Crowley pays him back years later.





	1. Then

Crowley has quite taken to being Warlock’s Nanny Ashtoreth. At least most of the time, when the boy isn’t being a right little shit. (She can’t count the number of times the boy had screamed his head off, only to have Secret Service pop out from behind the nearest shrub, handguns pointed in every direction and trigger fingers at the ready. He _ was _ supposed to the Antichrist, but sometimes enough was enough.)

At least she has Aziraphale (sorry, Brother Francis) to complain to over a nice glass of wine, once Warlock is tucked in and dreaming of ghastly tortures and glowing red-eyed beasts. The angel had ditched the horrendous false teeth and dowdy robe in a sulk after Crowley had practically pissed herself laughing at him, but he’d kept most of the sideburns and the longer, curlier hair.

Today, those curls are matted to the back of the angel’s neck as the sun beats down on him in the garden, sweat rolling to the kerchief tied around his neck. The day is hot enough that Crowley ditches her woolen coat in favor of her pitch-black parasol when she brings Warlock out to play. It offers a little shade when even Crowley, still naturally cold-blooded and heat-thirsty, grows too warm. 

She fans her hand in front of her face, her own hair matting to her neck, after she finishes slathering Warlock in suncream and sets him free to tricycle around the gravel patio near the landscaped lawn. Aziraphale tends to a rosebush, murmuring something to the blooms as he prunes dead leaves and overgrown stalks.

Warlock is safe here, under the watchful eye of his Nanny and the three bodyguards she can sense lurking nearby, so she picks her way across the lawn in her razor-sharp Louboutin stilettos and peers over Aziraphale’s shoulder, watching him work.

“Why, Brother Francis, I do believe you’re ssspoiling those roses.” The angel smells of the petals and rich earth and sweat, and Crowley has to resist her serpentine instinct to flick out her tongue to taste the air nearby. (The Secret Service agents would probably shoot her just for being weird.)

Aziraphale sighs, wiping his dripping forehead across his tanned forearm before turning to Crowley. “Cro-Miss Ashtoreth, I’ve told you before, plants—and children,” he adds, nodding towards Warlock zooming around on his trike, “do much better with a little tender, loving care than violence and, and threats.”

“When have I ever been anything other than tender and loving to wee Warlock, hmm?”

Aziraphale looks up at her, brilliant blue eyes even more stark in his suntanned face. “Fair enough. But is telling him his rightful role is to subjugate all living things really the best—”

“Hush.” Crowley places one slim finger to the angel’s lips, making his eyes go wide as the words die in his throat. “Don’t you worry about the boy. He’s doing just fine. You, on the other hand, look like you’re about to pass out from dehydration.”

“Well, not all of us get to work indoors all day, do we?” The angel says peevishly, reaching into a pocket for another kerchief to mop his face. “Besides, it wouldn’t be very realistic to _ not _be sweating in this heat. I don’t know how you stand it in all those layers.” 

“Hell’s much warmer than English summers, sssweetheart. Besides, it’s worse at night. Can’t sleep in a stitch lately—” She stops, realizing what she’s saying and _ who _she’s saying it to, as Aziraphale’s eyes practically pop out of his head and he goes pale under his tan.

“Nanny! Brother Francis,” Warlock interrupts, trotting over with something in his hand. “I found this, whazzit?”

“Oh, let’s see what you have there, my darling!” Crowley exclaims, grateful for the distraction. She kneels down, holding her hands out to the boy. He gives her a gap-toothed grin before depositing a large, shiny rock in her hands. “I believe, young man, that you’ve found a rather big piece of quartz. It’s a mineral—remember, we talked about those during your science lessons the other day?”

“Quartz,” Warlock repeats, staring at it as she hands it back. “I shall keep it in my treasure box." He nods seriously to them both and strides away to continue his exploration of the garden.

They both watch him for a moment, until Aziraphale turns back to Crowley, eyebrow raised in an expression the demon rather thinks he’s learned from her. “‘Not a stitch’? Really, Crowley, you’re shameless.”

_ Ah well, in for a penny_, she thinks. “Ohoho, angel, you have _ no _ idea,” Crowley purrs back at him with a wicked, sharp-toothed grin on her lipsticked mouth and eyes flashing in mirth behind her dark glasses. She leans in, chest brushing his shoulder as she whispers, “I’d be tempted to show you just what I’m _ not _ wearing under this getup if the boy and his bodyguards weren’t around. Actually, the bodyguards might enjoy the show…”

She laughs as she steps back, giving him a salacious wink that makes Aziraphale’s mouth go even drier than the summer air.

“You, you can’t tempt me, you know,” the angel stammers, his protestations feeble even to his own ears. “I won’t fall sway to your flirtations. I am a divine, pure being of purpose and, and moral fiber!”

“Keep telling yourself that, angel,” Crowley says with a wink. “It’s time for tea. Do try your best to keep yourself from passing out from lightheadedness now. It just wouldn’t do.”

When Aziraphale realizes she’s referring to his physical corporation’s rather primal response to the images she’s putting into his head, he reddens and turns back to his gardening, shuffling closer to the rosebush to hide his erection. (Thankfully, none of the Secret Service are hiding in this particular plant at the time. That would be awkward.)

* * *

  
Aziraphale usually meets Crowley in her suite after Warlock’s bedtime; it’s far nicer than his simple lodgings in the carriage house. (While the Dowlings may normally have forbidden such fraternization between the sexes under their roof, Brother Francis is a man of god and Nanny Ashtoreth is quite no-nonsense and such a help with Warlock, and they were old friends from long ago.)

Tonight, he conjures up a nice, old bottle of red wine from his stash back at the bookstore and, after miracling his corporation and clothes spotless, makes his way down the gravel path to the servants’ entrance of the massive house. Crowley’s room is directly upstairs on the second floor, down the hall from Warlock’s nursery.

He’s a bit early but, as usual, the door to Crowley’s suite is unlocked. He quietly slips into the main room and sets the bottle and glasses on the table by the fire. Crowley is nowhere to be seen, so he pours himself a glass and settles into the other chair, savoring the plush velvet against his tired body and running a hand through his longer-than-usual hair. (_After, all, it’s not a sin to enjoy well-earned comforts, is it?_) 

Halfway through his second glass of wine, a muffled splash from the sound of the bathroom grabs his attention. Was Crowley...in the bath? He makes it through the rest of the glass before the itch of curiosity becomes too much to bear.   
  
Aziraphale creeps stealthily over to the slightly ajar door off the hallway. His heart is pounding in his corporation’s chest, and he inhales sharply as he shakes his head and begins to back away, shocked at his audacity.  
  
But then, he catches Crowley’s raspy murmur of the word “Angel…” and freezes. Was the demon talking to him? Did she know he was here? Aziraphale weighs the possibilities. Perhaps just a quick peek in, invisible to the demon, would suffice. If she had called him in, that was one thing, and if not, he could make a hasty retreat without the ensuing embarrassment. (It would not occur to him until much, much later than he might have simply said, “Yes?” and waited for Crowley’s reply. Perhaps the heat had addled his brain.)

Satisfied with his solution, Aziraphale makes a gesture like pulling down a window shade and his corporation gradually disappears from sight. He pushes the bathroom door open just a bit wider and sticks his head in tentatively, ready to flee back to his wine and forget this whole misadventure if needed.

At least, that’s what he had told himself before he sees her. Before he hears her say his name again, a breathy whisper that became a whimper she bites back by sinking her teeth into her crimson lip. 

Crowley was, in fact, in the bath, and was, was…

...tilting her head back to rest against the cold tile of the rim, curls that have slipped free of their clip now dripping and plastered to her face, her long-lashed eyes closed and lips parted in a wide-mouthed gasp…

...sitting with one long leg splayed over the lip of the tub, the other bent at the knee and using the basin as leverage to thrust her lower body just above the shallow water…

...rubbing the long, thin fingers of one hand (nails daubed with blood-red polish) over the small swells of her breasts, teasing the pink nipples ruddy, as the other hand moves between her legs in slow, firm, tantalizing motions....

...letting another whimper escape her mouth as she murmurs _ Angel, pleasssse, more. _

Aziraphale watches the demon pleasure herself thinking of him, and his traitorous body responds. He’s been in this corporation for quite a while (and had to deal with the occasional...genital inconvenience) but never really sampled its physical pleasures beyond a hard day’s work, a good night’s sleep, and a flavorful, rich meal. This, though, Crowley here in the bath, was none of those things. She was enjoying pleasure for pleasure’s sake, nourishment of a body’s base desires rather than its functional needs. It was something he’d thought about, now and again, but never like this...never with so much abandon as Crowley in this moment. She was a demon...and he was an _ angel_, for goodness’ sake, what was he _ doing_?!   
  
But as he makes another belated attempt to sneak away, Crowley hisses, arching her back and thrusting her narrow hips in time with her hand as it moves faster, harder, making the bath water ripple and wave around her. Only moments later, her body convulses into jerking, pulsing, instinctive movement, and she brings her free hand to her mouth to muffle her broken sob of pleasure as she comes.

Aziraphale’s body finally carries him back to the safety of the living room. He breathes heavily, body strangely warm and erection throbbing beneath his trousers. He tries to clear his mind, but the image of Crowley twisting and moaning (moaning for _ him_) won’t go away. Neither will the confused shame of spying on his friend in a private moment. Conflict churns within him as he tries to compose himself before Crowley appears.

Thankfully, he’s at least moderately successful, because the demon doesn’t seem to suspect a thing when she emerges and pads over to her chair, wrapped in an elegant, floor-length silk dressing gown and hair pinned back up. “Hello there, angel. Been waiting long?”

“Oh, no, just—er, just got here. Glass of wine?”

Crowley slouches into her chair, bringing a hand up to pat her damp bangs into shape. “Love one, thanks ever so. What a day, I’m absolutely drained. It was far too warm and wet.”

Aziraphale’s hand wobbles in mid-pour, and a splash of wine falls onto his trousers. “Ahem, oh dear. M-must be more worn out than I thought.” He hands Crowley her glass and miracles away the stain, feigning nonchalance.

“So, ah, what is young Warlock reading these days? I might have a few suggestions, if I may…” he prattles, heart finally beginning to slow as they settle into their routine post-dinner chat.


	2. Now

Aziraphale somehow manages to forget the incident until one night, years later. After the Apocalypse-that-wasn’t, they’d set a few things straight between them, one of which being that Crowley was absolutely and completely smitten with him, had been for ages. (_“Oh, my dear, me too_,” _ he’d replied, cutting off Crowley’s inevitable joke with a tender, gentle kiss that turned into several more after 6,000 years of pent-up pining after one another.) _

Their new domicile built for them by Adam after the unfortunate loss of Aziraphale’s bookshop was spacious, although his sense of decor was vastly different than the angel’s and demon’s tastes. Crowley had turned his office into a cavernous expanse, all gloomy lighting and sharp angles, while Aziraphale’s den looked more like his old bookshop, piles of tomes and papers littering every available surface that didn’t already contain abandoned cocoa mugs and magnifying glasses.

One thing they’d both agreed was missing, however, was a nice screened-in wraparound porch, the kind popular in the American south that could be glassed in during the winter. It had become their new favorite place to lounge for a nice after-dinner cocktail, before retreating upstairs to the comfortable warmth of their bed. (Crowley enjoyed sleeping too much to give it up now, even if he didn’t plan on indulging in any century-long unconsciousness. Much of that had been sulking, anyway.)

Tonight, the porch proved a blessing as the scorching summer heat turned to cooler, breezy evening. Crowley scratches a hand through his short hair as he lounges a short distance from the angel. Aziraphale sets his book aside and conjures up a nice port and a few chocolates, settling in beside the demon and watching the darkening sky through the screened window.

“Y’know, I kind of miss it sometimes,” Crowley says, almost to himself, as he accepts a glass and snatches a dark chocolate and raspberry confection from the ornate silver tray.

“What’s that, my dear?” Aziraphale asks, humming and giving a small, unconscious wiggle of contentment on the couch as he takes a sip of his own port.

“Being female.” The angel chokes on his port, coughing and wheezing as Crowley thumps his back to clear his airway. "Or in that body, at least."

“Oh, that’s, er...how is it?” Aziraphale asks, once he can speak.

Crowley sits back and waves his hand in a loose, sinuous gesture of indifference. “I forget you’ve never tried it, angel. Doesn’t really take a lot of energy to modify your corporation, once it’s here, but to each their own.” He thinks for a moment, watching Aziraphale as he leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees and continue. “It’s just different, that’s all. I feel...I dunno, lighter. Less connected to the physical plane. More aware of myself, I suppose. Plus, you have to admit, there are so many more fashion options.”

He eyes Aziraphale’s usual three-piece getup and snorts, pulling the angel in by a single finger crooked in his bow tie to press a light, playful kiss to his mouth. But when Aziraphale doesn’t respond, Crowley sits back, eyeing him with concern. “You all right, angel?” Aziraphale is bright red, mouth pressed into a thin line like he’s trying to stop the words from escaping. “Angel, what is it? What’s wrong?”

“I-I have...I have a confession to make, my dear,” he blurts out, wringing the untucked hem of shirt in his hands. “I just, I’m not sure if I should tell you. I’d hate for you to think less of me, o-or—”

“Angel, you’re ssshaking, _ what isss it?_” Crowley only really hisses these days when he’s terrified or furious, and Aziraphale wants him to be neither, so he sighs, closes his eyes, and speaks:

“Back when you were Warlock’s nanny, do you remember that one particularly hot day? You took a bath that night, even though it was ridiculously hot outside and no person in their right mind—”

“—Hmm, vaguely, yes, why?” There’s a strange look on the demon’s face when Aziraphale opens his eyes, but he can’t stop or he won’t be able to get it all out, so he soldiers on.

“W-well, when I came upstairs for drinks that night, you were still in the bath...and y-you, er, that is. Well, you...I heard you say my name, so I thought you might need something, but then I saw—”

Crowley bursts out laughing, tears streaming down his face as his sides heave. Aziraphale is stunned, confused at why his confession of spying like a degenerate voyeur is causing the demon such mirth. _ Unless… _

“You _ bastard_. You _ knew_! You’ve known I was there this whole time, and you never said anything!” He smacks the demon’s shoulder playfully, relief seeping out of him as the demon tries to collect himself.

“O-of course I did, Aziraphale. I mean, c’mon, you must know that invisibility charm only works on mortal beings.” He wipes the moisture from the corner of his eyes and gives the angel a fond grin. “Okay, I will say that I didn’t know you were there at _ first_, but then, well, why not put on a bit of a show?”

“B-but that was _ ages _ before…” _ Before you confessed that you loved me, had loved me, wanted me forever by your side_.   
  
Crowley pulls him back in, this time for a deep, sensuous kiss that makes his skin tingle as the demon slides a thin hand under the angel’s (now conveniently unbuttoned) shirt. “How ever can I make it up to you, angel? I’m a _ very _ bad demon, you know. Perhaps I need to be punished?” His golden eyes flare bright with lust and mirth and mischief as he rubs the pad of his thumb across the plush bow of the angel’s mouth. “Hmmm, I have an idea, if you’ll allow me?”

Aziraphale’s breath catches at the implication of the demon’s words. “Wait, I spied on you, shouldn’t I be the one being punished here?” 

“As the wronged party, I get to choose my compensation. And I want to surprise you. Meet me upstairs in the bedroom in, oh, let’s say an hour?” 

“In the bedroom?! Crowley, wait—” But the demon has vanished. Aziraphale sighs and reaches for his port. This was not at _ all _ how he expected this evening to go.

* * *

  
After the hour is up, Aziraphale has well and truly worked himself up trying to imagine what Crowley’s getting into. He’s bitten his lip practically raw in worry, his jacket, vest, and tie abandoned on the couch as he paces the porch, but now the demon is expecting him upstairs.

He climbs the stairs slowly, bracing himself for whatever Crowley has in mind in punishment-that-isn’t. The angel knocks gently on the ajar door, and a surprisingly female voice tells him to come in.

“Hullo, angel, what do you think?”

Aziraphale’s brain grinds to a halt at the sight before him. Crowley is sprawled on her side atop the bed, supporting her head with a bent arm. Her long, fire-red hair hangs in gently tousled waves, one golden, kohl-lined eye peering up at him from behind messy bangs. Her sharp, broad cheekbones and pointed chin are the same, but the rest of her is ever-so-slightly more curved, fuller lips and breasts and rounded hips and thighs.

He’s seen Crowley this way before, as Nanny Ashtoreth, so it’s a bit of a surprise but not totally shocking given his confession earlier. No, what’s turning his conscious, rational mind into so much mush is what the demon is wearing.

A black lace bustier, straps following the curve of her chest and meeting in a halter above each breast, cradling and enhancing them. A high girdle that hugs her waist and hips with more black lace but leaves the delicate swell of her buttocks bare. Delicate black ribbons that trail down her thighs to hold up silk stockings that make her long legs appear even longer...and the sharp, sky-high Louboutins he remembers. A thin gold chain encircles her neck, and where its strands meet, a tiny pair of wings.

“Oh, _ Crowley,_” he chokes out, overwhelmed with fondness as he sits next to the demon. “You look _ wonderful_, my dear.”

“Hmm, I do, don’t I,” she says, sitting up and looking down at herself. “These are nice in particular.” She gives her chest a squeeze, long, painted nails digging into the flesh, and Aziraphale gasps quietly at the sight.

“Too bad you won’t get to play with them just yet.” Crowley gives him a particularly demonic smile and pushes his outstretched hand away. “Ah ah ah, this is punishment after all. _ I _ get to touch, you just get to _ look_.”

“B-but—” The angel splutters, something like grief balling in his stomach. Crowley is beautiful, and the thought of not getting to explore her curves and hidden places for himself is like being handed a present he can’t unwrap.

“Shush,” she tells him, waving her hand at the armchair in the corner. “Pull up your chair, angel. No more arguing.”

By the time Aziraphale has hauled the armchair over next to the bed, Crowley is trailing her hands down her torso, seemingly savoring the differences between this and her usual form. Aziraphale collapses into the chair, gripping the arms tight enough to splinter the wood (which he fixes with a thought) as he watches Crowley’s gentle touches move to rake red scratches across the parts of her thighs not covered in delicate silk. Her eyes are dilated, watching him watch her, and she bites her lip to hide a smile, pleased at the attention.

“How lovely you are, Crowley,” he rasps out, and she lets the smile free as she sinuously eases her body onto the sheets, looking up at him from the foot of the bed as her hands continue their wanderings up and down her thighs. A lazy gesture of one of her hands, and his trousers are unbuttoned, zipper slid down to free the swell of his cock from its confines. “Hmm,” she hums, closing her eyes and tilting her head as she arches her back, letting both hands slide between her thighs to where the girdle ends and the soft apex of red curls begins.

Aziraphale is grateful he doesn’t have to breathe, because Crowley steals his breath with her first small moan of pleasure. As the angel slides his own hand to grip his erection, she splays her thighs wider to give him a better view. Her chest rises and falls rapidly as her fingers delicately circle the hood of her clitoris, the other hand gently stroking the damp, flushed folds just below.

“A-angel...” she moans out, and Aziraphale can’t resist the urge to stroke and fondle himself in time with her movements, tension in the pit of his stomach already craving release. Crowley turns to watch him as she pleasures herself, need and want and lust written on every inch of her face completely undoing him.

“Please,” he begs, craving to touch her, and she relents, lunging for him and dragging him on top of her by his shirt front, not caring that the buttons pop off and bounce across the floorboards and she practically rips the collar off. Aziraphale kisses her soundly, fisting her hair in his hands and savoring the smoky, salty taste of her mouth. She cranes her neck, inviting him to press kisses to her neck, and he takes the opportunity to make her top vanish, freeing her breasts to his worshipful ministrations.

A few nuzzles and nips of teeth later, and Crowley is practically panting underneath him, clinging to his sleeves and grinding in damp, sharp circles on his leg. “You...tease…” she gasps out, and the look in the angel’s eye is positively wicked as he looks down at her.

“_Me_? I think not. Unlike you,” he says, positioning her legs to wrap around his waist and holding her there with a firm grip on her buttock, “I deliver on my temptations.” With a hard, deep thrust, his cock is seated fully within her, and she cries out, clinging to him as he waits, motionless, savoring the flutters of her flesh at the tight stretch until he can’t hold back any longer. He worships Crowley’s body as he does her soul. They pant and thrust and cling to each other until she’s shaking beneath him, crying out in bliss as she comes, dragging him along with her the glorious white blaze of his own orgasm.

“My love,” Aziraphale whispers, pressing his forehead to Crowley’s as they recover. She stretches and twists, savoring the last hazy strands of contentment in her limbs, before giving him a fond kiss.

“Now, then, have you learned your lesson, angel?” she asks, and he shakes his head with a laugh. 

**Author's Note:**

> *Fans self* Well, after a few days of rest, my muse decided to reward me with this two-part spectacle.
> 
> Female Crowley's lovely outfit is inspired by @gingerhaole's amazing art (can be found in "Polaroids" here on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20531924)
> 
> Title is from "Foreigner's God" by Hozier.


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